Chapter Three: The Mist of History

Riding his warhorse, Arthas galloped alone down the road leading to Andorhal, a major town in Westweald. The scenery around him blurred backward, and under the evening sun, he soon caught sight of Andorhal's clustered buildings.

Reining in his mount, Arthas urged it forward, hoping to enter Andorhal before night fell completely.

Yet, as the landscape shifted, Arthas suddenly sensed a hint of something amiss, and under his control, the warhorse began to slow down.

A bizarre scene unfolded before him. The road to Andorhal in his field of vision grew dim and murky, resembling the imagery in a faded painting.

The emerald woods and grassy thickets were stained with a withered, sickly yellow, radiating faint ripples of deathly aura, as if he had returned to the scourged wastes of Icecrown Glacier.

Andorhal's once rich and fertile soil had grown barren and parched; the remains of animals littered the ground, devoid of life, lingering on the brink of death like a creature infected by a terrible plague.

Gradually, shattered remains and scorched wagons appeared along the road. Some of the dead wore expressions of extreme agony, having undoubtedly suffered immense terror and pain before their demise.

The broad main thoroughfare could no longer accommodate the footing of Arthas's warhorse. Forced to dismount, Arthas prepared to lead the animal onward, only to find that the horse standing beside him moments before had vanished entirely into thin air.

This strange anomaly caused Arthas a slight flutter of surprise, but he quickly regained his composure—what he saw was not true reality, but some form of illusion.

Stooping down, Arthas plucked a few blades of withered grass from the ground and rubbed them between his palms; the brittle leaves instantly crumbled into dust and fell to the earth.

Amidst the howling wind, Arthas could distinctly smell the pungent stench of decay. All of Westweald was shrouded in a terrifying plague and death; this was no longer a home where people could live and work in peace.

Who on earth had conjured such a realistic illusion? Could the Dreadlords be repeating old tricks, attempting to breach his defenses through this means?

Yet, as he examined his own mind, he discovered that his spirit had not been clouded by magic; rather, the world around him had truly and undeniably changed.

A torrent of questions flooded Arthas's mind. What had happened? Why had he inadvertently stumbled into what felt like a genuine plane of reality?

Andorhal lay straight ahead. Arthas checked his equipment, preparing to venture into the town and discover the truth of the matter.

The further he walked, the more familiar the scene appeared. When the ruins of Andorhal finally came entirely into his view, he remembered at last.

"This is the future... the Western Plaguelands occupied by the undead Scourge?"

Vast numbers of skeletons and ghouls wandered among the ruins of Andorhal. This once prosperous town was now a hellish vista, its former residents long since transformed into minions of the Scourge.

Moreover, standing outside the city, Arthas held a lingering intuition that the source of this abnormal illusion lay within Andorhal itself. He had to go inside and see what was transpiring.

Naturally, the undead blocking his path had no intention of allowing a living human into Andorhal. The moment Arthas appeared in their field of vision, countless greedy and bloodthirsty gazes locked onto him.

Arthas initially thought to draw Frostmourne, but his hand paused upon the hilt and instead grasped the handle of his warhammer.

A faint light of the Holy Light gradually enveloped the warhammer. Arthas loosened his limbs and strode directly into the ranks of the undead.

...

Thirty minutes later, guided by an inner prompting, Arthas arrived before the abandoned Andorhal inn, behind him piled mountains of undead corpses.

These low-ranking cannon fodder could no longer pose a threat to Arthas, nor could they even manage to sap his stamina.

As Arthas stood before the doorway of the derelict inn, those previously frenzied undead suddenly lost their target, wandering aimlessly in confusion for a moment before slowly retreating.

Only then did Arthas sling the warhammer, stained with undead rot, back across his shoulders and push open the inn doors, which were veiled in dust and cobwebs.

Following a harsh, grating squeak, Arthas waved a hand before his nose and mouth. A stifling wave of rotting mold and choking dust rushed out from the interior of the inn.

Tables and chairs lay sprawled at odd angles, and the chaotic counter indicated that when catastrophe struck, the inn had been plunged into panic and confusion simultaneously.

In the corner, Arthas even spotted a complete human skeleton. For reasons unknown, it had not been resurrected by the undead Scourge—perhaps because the undead had devoured it far too thoroughly.

Aside from the sound of Arthas's combat boots striking the floor, the entire ground floor of the inn was devoid of any other noise, mirroring the haunted houses of ghost stories precisely.

Yet, in this inn that should have been silent for years, Arthas suddenly heard the clamor of clinking cups and boisterous merrymaking echoing from the second floor. However, when he climbed the creaking staircase to the upper level, he found nothing save for a few cobweb-choked rooms.

"Here..."

The sudden voice caused Arthas to whirl around abruptly, his gaze fixing on the guest room with a closed door at the end of the corridor.

Frowning with a measure of suspicion, Arthas strode purposefully toward that guest room. As he passed one of the chambers along the corridor, a dark shadow lunged out.

It was none other than an ugly ghoul! Yet Arthas felt not the slightest panic, as though he had long anticipated this exact scene, and thrust his iron-gloved gauntlet straight forward.

The fragile wooden wall panels were utterly unable to withstand Arthas's strength; the lunging ghoul was crushed flat beneath the collapsing wall. Arthas lifted his foot and brought his heel down firmly upon its head, and the wretched ghoul instantly fell still.

Flinging away the unidentifiable fluid on his hand, Arthas grasped the doorknob and pulled the closed door open.

Yet, this room was not aged and cluttered like the other abandoned guest quarters; instead, it was as clean, comfortable, and orderly as a normal room that was regularly tended.

What truly captured Arthas's attention, however, was not the strange room itself, but a diminutive figure seated at the desk.

Hearing the door open, the figure spun its chair around, and upon seeing Arthas, the little gnome leaped up from the seat in delight.

"Oh! Thank goodness, I finally succeeded!" The female gnome possessed an appearance vastly different from other female gnomes, resembling a human girl much more.

Her golden hair was tied into twin buns, she held a gem-encrusted staff in her hand, and she wore a peculiar yellow, white, and black robe that belonged to the uniform of no human mage organization.

Upon seeing this character, who seemed etched deep into his soul, Arthas's very first reaction was to draw Frostmourne, the runes along the blade flaring instantly with light.

The little gnome's expression stiffened, and she hastily waved her hands at Arthas. "Hey, hey, hey! Don't be so tense! Can you please... *ahem*, put that sword away? Nice to meet you, my name is—"

"Chromie, you had better give me a reasonable explanation."

Arthas now fully understood that his entry into this bizarre future vision was unquestionably the handiwork of the creature before him!

Chromie—in appearance a cute female gnome, but in reality the bronze dragon named Chronormu, a member of the Bronze Dragonflight. Her appearance instantly put Arthas on high alert.

Sensing Arthas's intense hostility, Chromie offered a dry laugh while taking an imperceptible step backward, attempting to put some distance between herself and Frostmourne.

"*Ahem*, I will explain everything, but could you please put Frostmourne away first—you're being rather frightening."

That sword was a cursed weapon feared even by dragons, coupled with this Prince of Lordaeron before her, who was undeniably the most abnormal individual across all timelines.

His power surpassed his contemporaneous self in any other timeline, and he had embarked upon a path that had never occurred before—which was the primary reason she had come here.

"I'll give you one minute to explain, or else I imagine Frostmourne would be quite happy to taste dragonflesh."

Chromie rolled her eyes, though her words were entirely sincere. "Please don't, I harbor no malice whatsoever, I merely wish to have a chat with you."

"A chat? What is there for us to chat about? You lot are the lofty guardians of time, and I avoid you whenever I can."

"I knew it would be like this, but, Arthas, did you know? The timeline you reside in has encountered a massive problem!" Chromie gestured with her hands to form a wide circle, attempting to convey the severity of the issue.

"A problem? I don't feel like there's any problem at all. Everything is going wonderfully right now; the Burning Legion might not even be able to descend."

"That's only the problem-free outcome you can see. From our perspective, it is not like that at all." Chromie sighed. "Do you know why I pulled you into this world? This is the history of the so-called 'correct' world."

"At this juncture, you, having merged with the Lich King, are still slumbering atop the Frozen Throne, while the domains of Lordaeron have already been completely reduced to a paradise for the undead."

"You should already know these things, so I won't elaborate further—normally speaking, although your timeline deviates from true history, we do not forcefully interfere, because every timeline has its reason for existing."

Chromie's expression grew peculiar. "However, right here is where the problem lies. The time period you inhabit cannot be interfered with. I exhausted every possible method just to drag you out from there, yet it can only be sustained for a very brief duration."

"Cannot be interfered with? What do you mean? Aren't you bronze dragons capable of moving freely through the river of time?"

Arthas posed the question, though he roughly understood that his lack of encounters with bronze and infinite dragons was likely due to precisely what Chromie described.

"It cannot be interfered with because the timeline you inhabit has gradually begun to merge with numerous other possibilities that concluded at various stages, resulting in the cost required for intervention becoming too great even for His Majesty Nozdormu to bear."

Nozdormu, the Dragon Aspect blessed with the powers of time, who could see futures at different temporal points and even foresee his own death—yet even an entity of such stature could not interfere with the time he himself inhabited?

"The Bronze Dragonflight is not as mortals imagine; countless worlds do not possess countless Bronze Dragonflight factions. In truth, ever since His Majesty Nozdormu accepted his blessing and attained his domain, the entire Bronze Dragonflight has occupied a singularly unique position among the dragonflights."

"We are the past, the present, and the future alike."

"And precisely because there is far too much we are capable of observing, all manner of paradoxes and destinies easily twist our minds. Even His Majesty Nozdormu himself employs his powers with utmost caution, daring not to excessively meddle in the flow of the temporal river."

"Because if one interferes too excessively with time, the resulting side effects are sufficient to drive even the most powerful dragon mad and strip them of their reason."

"Therefore, we are compelled to emphasize 'correction,' precisely to avert the severe impacts brought by certain special circumstances. Yet at the same time, we ponder a question: what on earth is the true destiny of Azeroth?"

As Chromie spoke, her form began to grow ethereal. Realizing that her time was running short, she accelerated her speech.

"Listen, Arthas, your appearance is an exceptionally critical turning point; at the very least, the automated feedback of the temporal river proves this. I cannot tell you too much, because merely knowing certain things can engender profound chaos."

"I am merely here to deliver a message: the sands of time turn once more—"

Before Chromie could finish her sentence, she froze like an image hit by a pause button. Her voice cut off, her movements stalled, and Arthas felt his vision blur as Chromie's form seemed like a stretched canvas, twisting and turning into nothingness.

"Pop!"

With a soft sound akin to a bursting balloon, Arthas shuddered all over, snapping out of a sensation of weightlessness. He found himself still mounted on his warhorse, galloping along the highway toward Andorhal.

Chromie's appearance and sudden departure left Arthas thoroughly bewildered. Not only did his inner doubts fail to dissipate, but they multiplied.

Yet her arrival did establish one fact for certain: the bronze dragons could not influence his choices. They perhaps knew, but they were powerless to take practical action.

Still, Arthas had a persistent hunch that Chromie had left some vital matter unsaid before her connection was severed by the side effects of temporal distortion.

Arthas suddenly wondered if he should proactively seek out the Aspect dragons. Some things seemed not to align entirely with what he thought he knew.